For the Admins of Benedict Cumberface
by Mariam Shabti
Summary: This is a collection of five one-shots for my fellow admins of the Facebook page Benedict Cumberface. The stories are unrelated and not in chronological order, and each one is named for its respective admin. Enjoy, my lovelies.
1. Bored

**Bored**

John was typing feverishly, IM-ing his latest girlfriend, Mary. It seemed to be going well – the relationship, not the conversation, though the conversation was leaning in a good direction – as he'd been dating her for about three weeks now. Most girls left a few days in, after meeting Sherlock for the first time. Mary, however, seemed to find the detective entertaining rather than insulting.

The Flatmate Hurdle had been successfully jumped.

That was when a barely audible moan issued from the front room. A few more followed, each one louder than the last.

John leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the kitchen table momentarily, then sat back up and resumed typing. _Not this time._

"Bored..."

John shook his head. _Nope._

"_Bored_..."

If possible, John typed even faster.

"BORED..."

John fondly read a reply, savouring each of Mary's well-chosen words.

"I'M BORED, JOHN."

"Shut up!"

"GIVE ME YOUR GUN."

"No!"

"I'LL FETCH THE CIGARETTES FROM UNDER THE SKULL."

"No, you won't! I've moved them!"

"I'LL BUY MORE."

"No one will sell you any, remember?"

A grumbled curse was the only reply, followed by a few alarming crashes and bangs.

"You're not going to find them, Sherlock!"

"YES I WILL."

"I've put them down the toilet!"

"I DON'T BELIEVE YOU."

John slapped his palms on the table. "Of course not," he muttered.

"I HEARD THAT, JOHN."

"Of course you did!"

More alarming sounds. This time it was paper.

"THIS WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA."

John scoffed. "It was _your_ idea!"

"A HORRIBLE IDEA. COLD TURKEY WAS A HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, BIT-NOT-GOOD IDEA."

"Quit wailing, Sherlock!"

"BUT I'M BORED. I REQUIRE MENTAL STIMULATION."

"Conduct an experiment, then!"

"I'M OUT OF BODY PARTS."

"Use the frozen chicken!"

A wordless howl filled the flat.

John rolled his eyes. "Is that _really_ necessary?"

"YES."

John was typing again. "Well...go see if Molly's got anything for you."

"SHE'S NOT ANSWERING MY TEXTS."

"Then go down yourself!"

"THAT INVOLVES GOING OUTSIDE."

"So?"

"I DON'T WANT TO GET DRESSED."

"Are you prancing about in a sheet again? 'Like a fairy'?" John mocked.

A long, pregnant pause followed. Then came the sound of a body flopping on the sofa.

"..._bored_..."


	2. Side of the Angels

**Side of the Angels**

He let one leg dangle carelessly over the precipice as he waited. He wondered for the umpteenth time what it would be like, to fall...

Sherlock would do it, he knew. He loved them too much, his little _pets_. Jim already had his hit-men in place, but he knew they wouldn't be truly needed. Their mere presence was enough to scare Sherlock into flying. He _was_ on the side of the angels, after all.

Like a pretty, pretty angel, Sherlock would fly. He would aim for the sky, but whoops! he'd miss. He'd hit the ground instead. Such terrible aim...

"I mean, how hard is it?" Jim said aloud. "The sky's pretty big. Too bad the ground's bigger, I guess."

He pulled his dangling leg up on the edge and fingered the gun in his pocket. He didn't know if he would need it, but he expected so. Best to be prepared. The angel may need a little...encouragement.

"He's pretty hard-headed. Who knows how much incentive he'll need?" he drawled at his shoelace.

Bullets? Yes, he had them. He rolled one around in his fingers, thinking. Sherlock had been fun. An entertaining distraction. But he, Jim Moriarty, had won the game. Somehow, winning lost its savour when he thought of how bored he'd be later. With no Sherlock Holmes, who could hope to compete with him?

He took out his mobile and read Sherlock's text again. Then he swiftly sent a reply:

**I'm waiting. -JM**

His heartbeat spiked when he hit 'send.' No taking it back now. Everything was ready. Everything was in place.

Time to teach the angel to fly.


	3. Socks

**Socks**

It had been a year or so since The Roof, and John was packing.

There were loads of books – books on chemistry, on criminology and psychology, even an old, battered collection of Hardy Boys mysteries.

Did _he_ read it as a kid and hold on to it for some sentimental reason? No. John dispensed quickly with that thought. _He_ didn't do sentiment.

There was paper. Lots of paper. Documents and letters. John didn't read the letters. They were all from a man – _his_ father, maybe? – and all unopened. They now would never be read, if not by _him_. Or perhaps...

John put them in the box labeled "MYCROFT."

John didn't pack the skull. He liked it, even spoke to it sometimes. Of course it only ever leered eerily, but it was a reminder of him that didn't hurt.

Not like the scarf they'd given him. It smelled of _him_. It was still looped as _he_ had looped it, when it was worn around that skinny little neck he'd so often longed to wring. They hadn't even washed the scarf. Blood still stained it where it had fallen from _his_ face.

That's why John had burnt it.

He'd regretted it later, but what was done was done. If he'd kept it he would have gone insane, he knew. But it still hurt. It hurt to think of it crumbling on the grate, _his_ smell and soul whisking away in wisps up the chimney.

Molly had kept the Belstaff. It was the only thing she asked for after...after _he'd_ been taken off her slab. Her eyes had been pink from crying. John suspected that plenty of her tears had wet _his_ cold, dead skin...

He'd given the coat to her gladly. Otherwise it might end up burnt on the grate too.

John was packing the last of his "sock index" now. What man needed that many socks? Black, dress, wool, silk, argyle, even a pair of atrocious green and purple plaid. Ridiculous.

Suddenly, his fingers came across something hard and square, shoved at the back of the drawer. He drew it out, not sure what to expect. After the plastic bag of disembodied sinuses in the silverware basket, he'd learnt to be wary of mystery containers.

It was a small, gift-wrapped box, in a cheery shade of red. Unopened.

He flipped open the gift tag.

**Dearest Sherlock**

**Love Molly xxx**

Oh. The Christmas gift she'd given _him_ at that horrendous party.

Should he open it?

His fingernail had unconsciously slipped beneath the tape binding it. Should he? Did he dare? It was private. _He_ wouldn't have let him, but that was part of why he wanted to open it. He briefly thought of Molly, and how she'd feel about it. Eh. She'd understand. She _was_ Molly, after all.

Pandora's curiosity plaguing him, he made up his mind and tore the paper off. Inside the box was a beautiful pair of long cabled socks. They were fantastically soft and oatmeal coloured, neatly folded within the box with an envelope on top. He opened the note, stroking the stockings absentmindedly.

**Dear Sherlock,**

**These socks are pure wool, so don't just throw them in the washer. Ask Mrs. Hudson. She's agreed to keep them clean for you, as long as you understand that she's not your housekeeper.**

**They took me ages to knit, so take care of them. I thought you could wear them in the morgue, since you're here so often and it's usually very cold. **

**Hope you like them!**

**Love,**

**Molly**

John looked at the socks in astonishment. She'd _knitted_ these? For that rude, cruel, unfeeling old sod?

He fingered the twining stitches. They were so _tiny_. And _he_ had very large feet, so many hours of devoted work must have gone into these stockings. And _he'd_ never even looked at them. _He_ had never bothered to open the present. He'd probably just guessed they were plain old socks, like he'd guessed the cuff links and the tie pin, and shoved the box in his sock index and forgotten all about it. Surely he wouldn't have dismissed them like that if he'd _known. _Unless...well, sometimes _he_ was just like that. Sometimes _he_ did unforgivable things. Like stepping up on the edge of that roof and making him watch...

John's hands were shaking. Before, he was just cold with frozen sadness, but now he threw the box back in the drawer in a fit of hot rage. Then, as fast as it had come, the fury cooled and a panting John Watson moved on to packing away the Bunsen burner that currently sat on the kitchen table.

The socks were soon forgotten in the face of other discoveries, like the ruthlessly stabbed Cluedo box and the secret stash of nicotine patches hidden in the springs of the sofa. It was just as well. John might have thought he'd gone insane if he'd returned the next day and found that the stockings, note, box and all, were gone.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was no more than a shadow creeping away from Baker Street that night. A shadow dressed in a horrible striped poncho and false beard, but a shadow nonetheless. His Belstaff was warm and comforting under the disguise. How thoughtful of Molly to save it for him. Too bad she couldn't salvage the scarf too.

He shuddered at the thought of his beloved scarf disintegrating on the grate.

His feet flopped in old, worn out Wellies that had once belonged to Molly's father. They had felt a little chilly before, but no more. Now they were toasty and warm, encased as they were in lovingly crafted socks.

_Thank you, Molly Hooper._


	4. Mrs Cumberbatch

**Mrs. Cumberbatch**

Mycroft was slowly falling to pieces. Sherlock noted this fact and relished it, knowing that he was the cause of his brother's impending breakdown.

He'd stayed at his brother's place for the past two days. After he'd fallen from the roof of St Barts, Molly had patched him up and let him sleep off the drugs and pain on her sofa. A week later he'd been smuggled to Mycroft's surprisingly modest bungalow by way of the Diogenes Club – the members of which, due to their amazing penchant for secrecy, could be absolutely trusted concerning the risky affair.

But two days in the company of Sherlock Holmes, it would seem, was enough to drive the respectable British Government completely bonkers.

Sherlock had hobbled around on crutches for the first day, grumbling and kicking the furniture in distress and boredom. He'd painted moustaches on all of Mycroft's most valuable paintings, started a few malodourous experiments in the kitchen and left them to rot, and had terrorised Mycroft's precious orange tabby-cat, Hobbes, by tying him by the tail to the wall sconce in the hall. The second day had seen Sherlock's crutches carelessly left in front of Mycroft's bedroom door, which he'd tripped over on his hurried exodus to the toilet early that morning. By noon, Mycroft's habitually sly expression had turned to one of desperation and anguish.

"This won't do, you know," Mycroft said, sneering at his brother over a luncheon of cold ham and watercress salad. "This whole..._childish_ stunt you're pulling. I know you're eager to set off, to _unravel the web,_ as you say – "

"It is crucial to the plan, yes."

Mycroft's left eyebrow rose cynically. "I wasn't finished."

Sherlock huffed and slumped moodily back in his chair. He hadn't bothered to change out of his pyjamas, and the ties of his dressing gown trailed limply on the floor.

"As I was saying," Mycroft went on, "I think it's time you left. Ah ah! Don't speak. I've got you a new identity, a new SSN, a new job, and even a fictional wife."

"What?!"

"It's all part of the disguise."

"It's preposterous!"

Mycroft grinned impishly. "We won't be expecting you to consummate your nuptials, dear brother. Don't worry about _that_."

"Blurrrrg," Sherlock groaned, "that's not the issue of the complaint."

"Yes it is."

The dead detective only rolled his eyes.

"Moving on," Mycroft sighed. "You are a budding English actor, starring in a few stage roles in the States. I should hope that, with your _superb_ skills of disguise, that this identity shan't be difficult to slip into. Your name is, as of today, Benedict Cumberbatch."

Sherlock jolted to his feet, his chair screeching and falling with a crash behind him. "Is this a _joke_?"

"I assure you, it is not. I would have thought you'd want respite from the atrocious name our parents bestowed upon you."

"But _Benedict Cumberbatch?_"

Mycroft's smirk, if possible, grew even more self-satisfied. "Certainly. If anyone could pull it off, it would be you. And Julianne here will aid you in pulling the wool over those ignorant American eyes."

Sherlock whipped around at the sound of entry to the room. A young woman of perhaps five-and-twenty stood in the doorway, a proud smile on her face. She was blonde and quite pretty, but Sherlock's stony face betrayed nothing. "Who are you then?" he snapped. "_Mrs_. Cumberbatch_?_"

Her beatific grin grew. "For as long as you need me to be," she said. "I'll be playing the part of your devoted American bride."

Sherlock snorted. "Welcome to the charade, then." He gave her a drippingly sarcastic bow. "My _dear_ Julianne."


	5. The Whip Hand

**The Whip Hand**

Sherlock was asleep on her sofa when Molly came out of the shower. Poor man. He'd had a tough time of it in the last four days. Faking your death was a long, tiring business.

She toweled her hair dry as she crossed the carpet, her pyjamas feeling cool against her moist skin. Toby padded along behind her, mewling his complaints concerning the new tenant.

"Ssh, ssh, lovey – you'll wake him up," she whispered, but she needn't have bothered. As much as Sherlock responded to the noise, he might as well be dead.

Toby gave her a dignified, scathing look and leapt on top of Sherlock's head, making a nest in his dark curls. Molly tensed, drawing in a terrified breath through her teeth, but the man didn't budge.

With a small smile, Molly moved to her chair where her laptop was nestled. Logging in to Twitter, she considered deleting her account. This whole thing was a waste of time, really.

She had a few notifications, most of which she ignored. One, however, caught her eye.

**Direct Messages**

**From: TheWhipHand**

**I don't trust this site – PM's might not be so private, after all - so drop me a text. Keep me updated on our favourite bloke. **

A number followed.

Molly shook her head and laughed softly. The profile picture was familiar – how could she forget it? Though the cadaver's face at Christmas had been bashed in, the picture supplied with the report was very distinctive. Molly remembered it vividly.

Sherlock had seen her naked, after all. She would remember pulling back that sheet – and watching Sherlock's eyes appraise The Woman's body – forever. A fresh barb of jealousy tore at her belly at the memory.

She took out her mobile and typed quickly, before she could change her mind.

**I know he helped you fake your death. That's how he did it too, you know. But don't think that because you're both 'dead' that you have some kind of claim over him. He's safe where he is. -MH**

She took a ragged breath and hit 'send.' Her phone beeped barely a minute later.

**He's sleeping, isn't he? -IA**

Molly gasped and looked wildly around the room, but saw no other cameras than the ones Mycroft had put in.

**How are you spying on us? -MH**

_Beep._

**I'm not. It's called deductive reasoning, sweetie. -IA**

Molly tensed. She wasn't _stupid_. Just paranoid. As she had good right to be, in the face of recent events.

**He's sleeping like a baby. A little cut up and dopey, but just fine otherwise. -MH**

_Beep._

**It's to be expected. I died too, remember? -IA**

Molly glanced over at the sleeping form on her too-short sofa. Toby's tail was curled contentedly around Sherlock's ear, and the detective snuffled slightly and batted at the offending appendage. She giggled involuntarily, and wondered with a hint of melancholy if The Woman had helped him too. Maybe she and Mycroft weren't the only ones... It wasn't as if Sherlock himself was very open with her on whom he'd decided to include.

**Did you help him like he helped you? -MH**

She bit her lip as she waited, but the reply wasn't long in coming.

**No. -IA**

_She's lying, _Molly thought angrily.

_Beep._

**I thought he was legitimately dead. Until I recognised the style of the death. -IA**

Molly's mind raced. Her breath hitched a little as she typed her response.

**So why contact me? He's got a mobile too, you know. -MH**

She waited in eager anticipation for the first two minutes.

The clock's ticking grew insistently louder in the silence. Toby began to purr in his sleep. Sherlock snuffled and rubbed his sock-clad feet on the armrest of the sofa. Molly took up a book from beside her chair where she'd dropped it, wondering if the Woman had been too insulted to reply. She found she didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt at the prospect.

The words on the page began to blur together an hour in. Molly yawned and thought about going to bed. She noted that reading the same sentence (_With the force of a bullet, the wad of chewing gum shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves's left nostril_) had a lovely lulling effect. Her eyelids fluttered slightly.

_Beep._

Her mobile's text alert seemed louder when she wasn't expecting it. She jumped with a gasp at the sound, fumbled for the device – it had fallen in the crack between the arm and cushion of her chair – and opened the message.

**Tried. He's ignoring me – seems he's found a better toy to play with. I suppose he simply ****_must_****have a pet, and now that John is now...****_indisposed_****...he's settled for the next best thing. Congratulations, Doctor. Take good care of him. You won't be hearing from me again. -IA**

Molly sat, frozen in shock, for a few moments. She glanced up from her mobile screen at the back of Sherlock's head. Toby's eyes were glowing at her from somewhere deep inside his curls; the sight was slightly unsettling.

"You really shouldn't talk to that Woman, you know," Sherlock mumbled from the depths of the sofa.

She shouldn't have been surprised that he was awake. The snuffling and snorting had ceased a few minutes before.

"Erm...Sherlock...I can hear the capital 'W' in your tone."

His shoulders tensed. "Irrelevant."

Molly shut her mobile off and set it and her book on the floor. She looked at it with determination as she mustered up her courage. "Why have you been ignoring her texts? She could have helped you too."

"Mmf."

"Um, no, really. She's brilliant."

"I know," he mumbled defensively. "She's also a catalyst, a time-bomb, a fragile system that could backfire at any time. Too risky, when it comes to protecting my..."

He seemed to have caught himself just in time from saying a very dirty word. The muscles in his neck tightened and his head burrowed deeper into the sofa.

"...Friends?" Molly finished tentatively.

She waited a few moments for a reply. When she heard what she was sure was a fake snore, she sat back in her chair. A satisfied smile spread across her face.

Suddenly Sherlock spasmed and knocked Toby off his head. "Infernal feline! And I can _feel_ you smiling. Stop it."

But Molly only giggled slightly and picked up her book once more.

**A/N: And that concludes my little one-shot collection! I hope you lovelies liked it, especially ~socks, ~Bored, -Side of the Angels, ~Mrs. Cumberbatch and ~The Whip Hand. :) Thank you ladies for being amazing and helping me with the Cumberface Facebook page. It really wouldn't be what it is now without the special attention from each and every one of you. (((hugs)))**

**Love,**

**~Sherlolly**


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